


A Punchable Face

by GoggledMonkey



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Also I only have a cliffs notes knowledge of The Canterbury Tales, Anachronisms, Chaucer scholars please forgive me, M/M, oh so many anachronisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoggledMonkey/pseuds/GoggledMonkey
Summary: Geoffrey Chaucer gets hit a lot but it's usually his own fault. In truth, he doesn't mind an angry man's hands on him if it's the right man.





	A Punchable Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkandstormyslash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide darkandstormyslash! Loved your prompt. I hope I pummeled him to your liking.

In the year Geoffrey turns 14 his father, using their fairly weighty and influential family name, sends Geoffrey away to train as a page at the estate of the Countess of Ulster. Politically, it's a marvelous idea. The position moves Geoff closer to Court which is a boon to the family name, it gets out of his father's house which is a boon for father, and provides Geoff with a new doublet and hose which is boon for Geoff. And since Geoff is bright, quick in mind and body and fair of face he thrives in the new environment.

Mostly.

The Countess' estate is home to a number of other youths, cousins, and nephews, in near age to Geoff but Geoff being in possession of a bright mind and quick wit, also possesses a sharp tongue. It would be difficult enough to make friends with his perchance for cruel observations but, and this is very important and often mentioned by the other youths, they aren't his peers. No, because they are noble born and Geoff is the son of a wine merchant.   

A lad of a more noble sort would be grateful for his station, how it will help the family name how it will give him opportunities for his future, but Geoff was not blessed with a noble heart. So instead he seethes when they laugh spending too much of his time in his own head turning his tormentors into a cast of crude characters that play out magnified flaws in his own moral tales. The melodramatic poet that is his heart vows they will rue the day they ever mocked him.

He also spends a good portion of his time dithering in the kitchens asking saucy riddles of the kitchen scullion Sarra.

_“I live in the dark and warm, until I swell up against the cloth above, the maid grasps me in two hands, rubs and presses, then sticks me in a hot place. What am I?_

_Bread Dough”_

Or

_"What is a thing that stands tall and firm in bed, is whiskery below, and when the comely lass grasps the head of it she weeps?_

_An Onion”_

These are the kind of riddles written to make a maid blush and laugh which Sarra does in spades. Geoff does this not because Sarra is comely, though she is golden of hair and large of bosom, but rather because it is known that Thom the man at arms who is 5 years, 5 inches and at least 5 stone Geoff's senior fancies her. Thom is possessed with vicious anger and has vowed to wallop any man who comes near Sarra and so Geoff is unable to stay away from her.

Cook waggles a spoon at Geoff when he lingers in the kitchen. She says things like "your mouth will be the death of you", or "pray to our sweet Lord that you're struck dumb boy" or "stop your ever-wagging tongue before the Devil takes you!".

Geoff does not and Thom, as promised with his dark eyes blazing like hellfire, finds him in darkened halls, or whilst running errands, grabs and shakes Geoff, rattles his bones, presses Geoff against the wall with his arm under Geoff's chin forcing air from his body. But the pain, instead of acting like a lesson to stop him, fills Geoff with a manic pressure.  He, again and again, hangs near Sarra, makes her blush and is beaten by Thom.

Cook, bless her, tends his wounds scolds him more, "Lad, one day if you do not halt your devil cursed tongue, an angry man shall cut it out for you."

Geoffrey does not take this to heart.

Many years later, when he is twenty and seven, naked as Adam in the garden, flat on his back, with a dagger to his throat, he reflects how right Cook was. Alas, Geoffrey Chaucer slain by his own wit.

William (or rather Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein) doesn't kill him or take his tongue because Geoff is a very useful person to have around. Or because William is a good man, a true knight in his heart the type of man that poets write about. William having been blessed with such a noble heart never rises again to Geoff's teasing. Alas. Roland is also an easy going pleasant sort of man.

Wat on the other hand, ah, he is so easy to rile up the Geoff is unable to stop himself. The man takes to anger like kindling to flame. Geoff antagonizes him the entire way to Rouen and Wat falls into it so readily even inventing his own wrongs of Geoff's to rail against.

Geoff eats too much of their stores. Fong him!

Geoff uses too many words Wat doesn't know. Fong him!

And of course, at Rouen, Geoff is a liar who loses money at dice like a stabbed man loses blood. Pain, lots of pain.

A sane man would stay away but a sane man is not Geoffrey Chaucer. Like a man prodding a hornet nest, he delights in the chaos he can stir up even at the cost of his body. So when Wat gives Geoff a crack on the nose so hard blood runs into his mouth?

Worth it.

Later, when William has gone off to dance with his lady love, Geoff, with his tender nose, find himself alone with a grumbling Wat.

"He's off, at a feast with ten courses eating pork pies and pheasant and I'm stuck here with a twat, starving like a fool."

"Alas, I cannot help you being a fool," Geoff, having a better understanding of Wat, dances back to avoid the wild swing his way, "but I can help you with regards to food."

Wat puffed up in his own anger doesn't hear and swipes at Geoff again, "You're the fool! You mangy good for nothing…"

"Food Wat!" Geoff claps his hands together with a bang in Wat's face, "surely you would rather eat food then beat me."

Wat looks torn as though he must really think of which he prefers. It's a wonder that their Lord God would create a man full only of threats and never ceasing hunger. Finally, still with the scowl that permanently ripples his face, Wat nods.

"Alright. Where's the food?"

Geoff waves a hand and sets off. Wat follows along gamely enough like Geoff's own ugly duckling but when they arrive at the keep's kitchen the scowl deepens to a dark look of contempt.

"You just gonna walk in there and ask the kitchen staff for food? They ain't just given that out to anyone who asks."

"I was once page to Elizabeth de Burgh. I think I can get food from a kitchen."

"Oh, yeah, lord fancy pants? ‘Cause I worked in the Duke of York's kitchen and we didn't give nothing away."

"Maybe not to people like you," Geoff looks at Wat haughty and superior just to see the red creep up his neck, "but you shall find I have more sway over men's actions."

 Haughty expression still on his face Geoff steps into the path of a young man.

"You boy," he snaps with his voice and fingers like an ass "our lord is tired after his long day and wishes to rest. I need a tray of food and a flagon of good wine to serve him in his tent."

"Yes sir," the boy squeaks stepping lively, "right away sir."

Geoff can feel Wat vibrating beside him probably with the urge to fong him for acting as lord fancy pants. Wat leans towards him and breathes out lowly for Geoff's ears only a lovely stream of threats. The snippet Geoff catches goes something like,

"I'm going to rip into you, tear you to pieces, pop your arms off and beat you-"

Geoff shushes the other man with a hiss and an elbow to his side. Just in time as the serving boy is quick on his feet and returns with a trencher heavy with food and a pewter pitcher.

"I pray this will please your lord," the boy says.

"Hmm. Well, I suppose it will have to do," Geoff's haughty voice loses some of its pomposity when he sees the dark red contents of the pitcher.

It seems that food truly is more beloved then beatings since Wat doesn't hit him in the kitchen, nor on their return from the kitchen nor back in the tent.

"Oh, Jesus wept," Wat sighs instead, eyes closed in the benediction of a pear and custard tart that he brings to his mouth. Geoff ignores the food imbibing instead on the very fine wine. Jesus wept indeed. Beer is adequate but there was a reason the Lord turned water into wine and not beer. So, Wat stuffs his face and Geoff gets drunk.

Geoff, once drunk, starts talking and doesn't stop but, as it turns out, Wat is much sweeter once fed sweets and he nods along in an almost friendly manner cramming untold amounts of tart down his gullet. As the evening continues Geoff finds himself telling Wat a scintillating tale of a cuckold husband, his beautiful wife and the two clerks who lusted after her.

"The wife calls out to him from the window: Oh, then man come kiss me," Geoff simpers pitching his voice up like a woman eyes fluttering a bit "So he leans forward and gives her a great kiss the lusty kiss of a depraved man,"

"Uh huh,"

"But lo, the man opened his eyes to look up at his seductress and he sees not her face but her great white arse hanging out of the window."

Wat's laugh is like the bray of a donkey.

"You're not writing that down!? It's filthy!?"

Geoff has not planned to write this story down, but there is something delightfully bawdy and topsy-turvy to imagine compose a work about ignoble commoners doing ignoble things.

"Maybe I shall. All the world, even the vilest, should be recorded for the betterment of man."

"How's your arse licking story making the world better? You're a fool." These are not the kindest words ever spoken to Geoff but Wat smiles as he says it, a real smile that reaches his eyes.

Something, quite unprompted, lurches inside of Geoff's chest.

"Then what happens?"

"Ah…well," Geoff takes a long drink of wine as he suddenly feels parched, "right. Nicholas then sticks his arse out the window to join in the foolery but Absolon wise to this trickery now seizes a hot poker for revenge and-"

The ending is interrupted by Roland, arms laid with a bolt of brown cloth, entering the tent.

"Well, aren't you two cozy," he says, "'tis nice, you two having a lovely evening. Myself, I was bartering for a new tent wall."

There is a look in Roland's eye that leaves Geoff feeling as though he'd been caught at something though he was doing nothing at all.

"Sorry Roland, ‘e was just telling this disgusting tale," Wat's face is still smile softened and he is sitting much too close.

Geoff drinks again and gives both a smile that feels like sharp like broken pottery.

"I would attempt to save some food for you Roland but fear my hands would be eaten if they got anywhere near Wat's wild and insatiable hunger."

A punch hits him predictably on the arm at that and Wat scowls at him sweetness gone. Geoff sits, while Wat helps Roland hang the new tent wall and Wat calls Geoff ‘lazy scum' and kicks at him when he steps near. Things are as they should be, and Geoff dismisses any queer feelings in his guts as too much wine and too little food.

In Paris, when William finally beds his Guinevere, Geoff's happy (though he will have to find new lodgings for the evening). He's got coin in his pocket and he's filled with that hot flush joy that only comes from winning a bet.

It was a perfectly happy night for all of them. Wat who'd hit him fiercely in the morning had changed his tune once he had more coin in hand then he'd ever held in his life. The four of them drank and sang and Wat seemed to turn sweeter by each tankard of ale, each baked apple consumed. It was the feeling of unease from Wat's genuine smiles that had driven Geoff back to the tent in the first place so when he returns the pub he avoids his previous drinking partners. On a night like this Geoff wants wine, dice and maybe a tumble; he doesn't want queer feelings under his breast.

It's not hard to find other drinking companions especially when you buy them a round. One man, named Joseph, is the squire of one of the other knights at the tourney and also his bastard son. As such, he is filled to the brim that indignity that comes of being a sniff away from nobility. The indignity has turned him into a sour caustic man who is an unpleasant drinking partner. He's educated enough to have many angry opinions about publishing in English and not Latin.  He calls Geoff a ‘trumped up son of a wine merchant' and Geoff is smitten. And so, as usual, his tongue gets away from him.

"Ah yes, a trumped-up merchant born and the bastard son of a duke. What a lovely pair make we."

Geoff is not such a tender lad that he doesn't know what he's doing riling men up. He's been doing it all his life. However, there's a certain understanding in Joseph's eyes that perhaps this whole act will come to something.

"Gentlemen, I must be off," Geoff bows to the table and heads outside to see a man as they say but also, hopefully in truth, to see a man.

Geoff waits in the shadows of the pub. He knows when the pub doors open behind him because the sounds spill out into the night. When he hears footsteps coming towards him he smiles.

"Ah, come to continue our debate?" Geoff turns and the smile falls. He'd hoped Joseph would follow him out, but he was not expecting the man to bring company in the form of a large lumbering lump of a man.

"You're a disgrace to the writing word," Joseph hisses, "and you act much above your station."

"Everyone is a critic," Geoff says cheerfully but the amusement wanes when a fist catches him on the side. The man is drunk and angry and has a large friend, so things do not look well in Geoff's favor. He makes a move to scuttle away, but his tunic is grabbed, and he falls to the ground.

His mind again harkens back to the warnings from his youth, this time may be the time, at last, he's killed himself with foolish words.

Just as this dark thought and another fist hit him the pub opens again this time bringing a savior who probably was just looking for a place to piss.

"Oi!" Wat is bright like a rooster and jerks his chin in Geoff's direction, "He owe you money?"

"This is not your concern boy." Joseph doesn't even glance towards Wat much to his folly. Wat is a loon who once tried to punch a knight in the face. Honestly, Wat would fight a brick wall if he thought it was looking at him funny so it's not a surprise when he slams his fist into Joseph's face.

Wat isn't a large man but the Lord has filled him with the uncontainable rage of a pit bear so Joseph crumples to the ground. When Joseph's guard tries to grab Wat by the shoulder Wat shakes him off with an elbow to his guts. Wat then leaps back onto the prone bastard to pummel him some more. It's very amusing to watch until it becomes concerning to watch as Wat does not let up. Geoff, not wanting to explain tomorrow why Wat was on the gallows for murder, tugs at his shoulder.

"I think you have made your point," he says but Wat shrugs him off. The lump stirs, reaching for his dagger and a man of lesser mind then Geoff can see a bloody end to a fine night so Geoff pulls out his own dagger and shakes it in the direction of Joseph.

"Yield!  Yield!" Geoff cries slightly desperately, "Yield or I fear my friend will do more than shift the contents of your pretty face."

Either it's the beating or the dagger but Joseph throws his hands up, "I yield."

"Pah," Wat spits but reluctantly moves off the other man. Joseph stumbles to his feet, face reddened, eyes black with anger. He says nothing, but his eyes promise violence, not as welcome as previously, as it’s the kind of promise that means Geoff should be watching his back. The troubling kind of violence that didn't bode well.

Still, Geoff manages a smile for Wat who is sullenly watching the retreat of Geoff's attackers. He did, after all, save Geoff from a worse beating, "I must thank you, for your excellent timing and-"

Wat smacks Geoff on the back of his head cutting his thanks, short.

“Ow! What was that for?”

"I thought you was supposed to be smart. You just wander off alone so's any git can rob you?"

Geoff tries to stand with dignity but it’s hard to pull off clutching his aching ribs, "I was no being robbed. I was, in fact, being beaten. There is a distinction."

"Is that better? You let that skinny little snoutband trash you-"

"I hardly let-

Wat doesn't look convinced face still full of scorn, "maybe if you weren't a sodden prick people wouldn't want to kill you all the damn time."

"How am I to blame here? You are the wildman that nearly murdered someone tonight!" Geoff tries to puff himself up with indigently but pulls his wounds instead.

Wat smolders and spits again, "You should go back to the tent before anyone else tries to kill you."

"Ah alas, we are tentless for tonight as William's sweet lady is tending to his wounds."

"What! But…where am I supposed to..."

"I'm sure there's room in the tavern and we aren't hurting for coin," Geoff makes a flourish with his arm and regrets it as it pains his wounds, "ah, though if you would be so kind as to assist me."

Wat makes a disgusted noise at him but allows Geoff to put an arm over his shoulder. Back inside they flip a few coins to the innkeeper for the last three pallets she has and head upstairs. When Geoff goes to sit down he lets out a groan that is only partly theatrics. Wat sputters at him, frowns then sighs.

"Right, let's have a look yeah?"

Geoff gives him an incredulous look, "oh, have you trained in the healing arts recently? A squire and a healer, will wonders never cease?"

Wat, oh so kindly, digs his knuckle into Geoff side making him yelp, "Twit. I look after William when he jousts; you think I can't tell if your ribs are broken?"

"Very well, oh Wat the healer," Geoff acquiesces pulling his tunic off. It's nothing the other man hasn't seen many times already. Underneath there is no blood, and his ribs are red but no bulging. He will likely live.

"Oh, they got you good there," Wat nods but his eyes are on Geoff's arm, not his ribs. It's no surprise though as his bicep has a bruise covering the top, that’s black centered edged in yellow. It's beautiful and grotesque and he's not sure how Joseph and The Lump managed since they didn't hit him there.

Then Geoff remembers who did hit him there and smirks at the realization.

"Ah, I believe that is your work Master Fonger."

"What?"

"Wat?" he snips back with a laugh the evenings wine is finally hitting him warmth spreading through him. He's flushed and giddy from a near miss and too much wine. "Indeed, it was Wat who struck me once again this morning."

Wat scowls at Geoff and his bruises, "You deserved them," he grunts before poking one of the bruises causing Geoff to hiss. Wat grumbles as he continues his so-called doctoring briskly running his hands over Geoff's ribs. And he looks a fool, with bright copper hair and tongue sticking out as he concentrates.

Except, when his face is free from a scowl there is something about that face that makes Geoff's heart feel tender and new.

And Geoff does not care for it.

"Are we done?" Wat looks up at this and his face is much too close to Geoff's. A thrill, like placing a bet runs through him. Wat blinks, confused then pushes him away.

"You'll live," Wat's face is mercifully all glares and he grumpily flops on to the straw pallet

Geoff pulls his tunic back on then bows, as low as his mirth will allow him, "thank you, sir. Your tender hands have healed both body and soul. Truly I am now a new man-"

"Shut yer gob or I'll-"

"Yes, yes I know what you'll do," Geoff lies down on the pallet as well, kicking at Wat to make room, "your love marks on my arm leave me with little doubt."

"Not love marks," Wat mutters.

They, truly, are not and Geoffrey is the fool.

In London, William turns the world on its head. The wheel of fortune has shattered. Up is down, black is white, the fool is the king. The son of a thatcher is a knight. It is thrilling. What will William Thatcher's heraldry be? A roof? Rushes?

What is to be the future of William Thatcher, knight? Will he gain land? Win the hand of his lady love? Steal her off in the night? Imagine, if a lady of Jocelyn's standing were to elope with the commoner knight. Oh, what a story.  A story that Geoff very much wanted to write down. Alas, he's not gone unnoticed in London and almost as soon as William wins the championship Geoff receives a summons to his father's estate. Obviously, it's to be the usual; he's expected to take a job as a clerk, marry, produce heirs the usual things.

It was foolish of Geoff to believe that a pocketful of coin and a heartful of stories would lead him anywhere but back where he started. What a shite ending to his grand adventure.

He's moping is what he's doing. Childish but still true. Thusly, when Wat comes upon him, Geoff is not feeling charitable in his heart.

"There's going to be a feast," are Wat's first words "in William's honor and we are all to attend. The Black Princes' own chefs will be cooking. They'll be capon in orange sauce, fried calf ears, cherry hearts," As he lists these foods Wat's face is the rare kind, the sweet and soft one that makes Geoff's heart ache, and that heartache makes him furious.

What a traitorous and foolish heart has he.

Wat has done very well for himself has he not? And he could continue with William as a player in that exciting tale or he could buy an inn have his good life of beer and stew and a large warm hearth. And maybe Wat would marry a lass like Sarra or the kitchen girl whose memory brings him to tears, someone sweet and plump who cooks and bakes and smells of bread with flour under her nails. Geoff feels that green-eyed demon crouched on his shoulder so when he hears that so oft repeated ‘tansy cakes and peppermint cream,' he rolls his eyes snaps.

"Ah, excellent. Then this tale will have a happy ending if there is a feast for you to go to. I will be sure to write it down for posterity this epic love story of Wat and his tansy cakes and cream."

Wat's smile drops and that familiar red starts climbing up his neck.

"What's gotten up your arse?"

"Nothing at all."

"Why are you always such a sodden prick? You're not when you talk to Will."

"William is a very pleasant fellow whereas you are a mad dog stuffed into the skin of a man."

Wat steps towards him, hands curling into thrilling fists, "You're always such a twat. It is like you want me to fong you."

This is much more perceptive then Geoff would except from Wat so Geoff doubles down. Bets on Wat's anger. Sneers.

"Well, you are usually so eager to supply those fonging," his sneer is the haughty sort that he knows brings Wat's blood to a boil, "That is the only thing I've ever seen you do: Hit things and eat."

Wat rushes him, (as expected, as goaded) and Geoff doesn't bother to evade the move. His back is slammed against the wall and the impact thuds through his body. Wat hits him, a sort of thunderous slap to the head already letting out a stream of curses. Geoff wonders if he can actually drive Wat to kill him if he has enough power in his words to do that.

He laughs then, a sharp bitter sound and Wat just stops.

"Do you want me to hit you?"

And it's -not- a threat. It's an honest quite curious question and Wat's hands and eyes are on him and Geoff feels the sort of exposure he imagines beetles feel when you turn over rocks. Geoff doesn't answer and it's his face that is turning red for once, his humors all out of balance, too much blood flooding his body.

"What do you want?"

"What I want? I'm sure I've said. To write. The capture the whole of the world in all its beauty and wretched pustulence, the stories of all the people the whole tribe of Englishmen from knight to begger with my words."

"What's stopping you?"

"Nothing and everything." Geoff's grin is the kind that hurts one’s face to make it. 

Wat looks at Geoff like he is something not for hitting but rather a sad broken thing one finds on the side of the road. Or worse, like he's something to be puzzled out.

There is little in the life that Geoff would like less than someone, especially someone like Wat, trying to puzzle him out. Geoff must do something to throw the balance of the world back on track. It's Geoff who has Wat figured out not the other way around. He pries Wat's fingers off his tunic and smiles like they are fellows having a pleasant talk.

"Well, if you have fonging me out of your system, I do have other matters to attend to."

"Wait, what? No, you started it." The confusion on Wat's face is a blessing. Words have always given Geoff an advantage, tipped scales, been his revenge and weapons.

"Would you like a riddle?" Geoff asks like it is a sane thing to ask.

"What?" he has Wat baffled now.

"Wat," he mimics back, "a riddle? You've heard of such things yes?"

"Ya, I know what a riddle is you poncy prat," Wat growls. He's annoyed. Good, good. The world is realigning, predictable and safe. 

"Oh yes, surly you are aware of Samson's riddle of the honey and the lion. But I do mean a riddle where you do not know the answer," Geoff channels the voices of all the nobles who'd ever sneered down at them when he speaks.

Wat steps closer, as dark and threatening as a storm cloud, "I said, I know what-"

Geoff cuts him off, "I hang stiffly at a man's thigh hidden beneath his cloak, and when brought to light I am stuffed into a small hole made for me. What am I?"

"A prick," Wat answers with none of the hesitation or embarrassment of a kitchen maid.

"Incorrect!" Geoff snaps.

"Is not!"

"Wrong. You are wrong. You are very wrong. It is in fact-"

Wat interrupts, marching over in a fury pinning Geoff again against the wall, "I'm not wrong. If it's hard, and sits at a man's thigh and is shoved into hose it's a prick, like you."

Instead of marveling at the fact Wat of all men was doing wordplay Geoff is now the befuddled one because Wat has, bold as brass, as he says the word ‘prick', reached out and grasped the very thing.

Geoff's that is not Wat's own.

And there is a furious redhead, glaring at Geoff one hand fisted in his tunic, the other, very large, very solid, very warm hand, pressed with no hesitation betwixt his legs. Geoffrey is no saint, he is not a creature of marble and light; he is but a man of flesh and blood and sin.

So, like the temple under Samson's fists, stones and pillars tremble. That is to say… it's words that mean two things at the same time. The dough doubles. The key stiffens. All this happens under Wat’s hand. Geoff cannot stop it; he is only a man.

"Still wrong," he manages to wheeze out, holding his body very still so as not to excite anything further.

"What is it then?"

Geoff must take a moment before he answers, his voice clipped and tight as he tries to control it, "The answer is a key."

"That's a shite riddle," Wat looks very put out, face red nostrils flaring hand still very much on Geoff's tackle. "'Course your riddles would be shite!"

Geoff tries to talk, call Wat a fool, defend his words somehow but instead he makes a rather shameful sound, pathetically pitched from the back of his throat.

Wat grins, a satisfied look on his face, "I knew I could shut you up."

Geoff tries to collect himself and prove that there is no one on heaven or earth that can shut him up but before that happens Wat moves his hand and kisses Geoff. He kisses as one would assume a very hungry man does, mouth open and wide, searching, his hands on either side of Geoff's face.

It is…fine. Certainly, not earth-shattering; Geoff has kissed before. Certainly, it is not a kiss that renders him speechless so If Geoff says nothing when Wat pulls away that is only because he has nothing to say.

Wat similarly says nothing. He has a look with his mouth still open as though he's startled himself. It's a certain look, eyes wide and blue vulnerable and foolish like a calf. It's the look of a man Geoff can cut up with sharp enough words. If he says just the right thing, he could pierce Wat’s heart.

"Out of the strong, something sweet," he says instead, softer words that are close enough to his heart to hurt him instead.

"What?" Wat says, face scrunched, annoyed and endearing. This fool does not get words and yet, ugh, still Geoff heart…

“Wat,” Geoff mimics back delighted.

Wat leans against him, face so close Geoff could count his eyelashes, “I don’t get you. You’re so…”

Wat trails off wordless, hands clenching in Geoff’s tunic.

“Brilliant?” Geoff suggests just to be an ass. Wat smacks him.

“You know that’s not it! You’re so…you bother me.”

“Ah, annoying.”

“Right. You’re a sodden git,”

“Ah.”

“And your face it’s so…”

“Handsome?”

“No! Your face, and all of you, ugh, it really makes me wanna fong you,”

Geoff smiles, the kind of large face spitting grin that bares teeth, and pulls Wat closer, “You know. I know exactly how you feel.”

Since he must have the last word, Geoff kisses him back, before Wat can say anything.


End file.
